Resident Evil

by S. D. Perry

  October 23rd

  I can’t think of them as human beings. They’re test subjects, that’s all, that’s all. I knew the research would have to come to this someday, I knew it and—and I didn’t know it would be this way.

  I must keep my focus. The T-virus is magnificent; they, these subjects should be honored to experience such perfection. Their lives pave a road to a higher awareness.

  Test subjects. That’s all. Pawns. Sometimes, pawns must be sacrificed for the greater good.

  January 13th

  My pets have been progressing. With their own DNA in the recombinant virus, I thought I could predict how infection would change them, but I was wrong. They’ve begun to colonize, like ants or bees. No individual is better than any other, they work together, a hive mind, coming together for a higher purpose. My purpose. I didn’t see it at first, I was blind, but this is vastly more rewarding than the work on humans. I must continue those tests, however—I can’t let on that I’ve discovered the true meaning, the value of T and what it represents. Spencer would try and take it, I know he would. My king is in the open.

  February 11th

  They’ve been watching me. I go into the lab, I see that things have been moved. They try and hide it, make everything look as it did, but I see. It’s Spencer, damn his soul, he knows about my leeches, my beautiful hive, and this—this persecution won’t end until one of us is dead. I can’t trust anyone... Albert and William, perhaps, my castles, they believe in the work, but I may have to eliminate some of the others. The game draws to a close. He’ll try for my queen, but the win will be mine. Checkmate, Oswell.

  It was the last entry. Rebecca closed the journal and set it aside, next to the chess set that was centered on the desk. When she’d found the hidden cache, she’d thought the rudimentary maps had been the prize. There were two, one that showed what appeared to be three floors of the building’s basement, including a few unmarked areas that perhaps led outside. The other seemed to be upstairs, a room labeled OBSERVATORY next to a wide, open area marked BREEDING POOL. But the small, leatherbound journal, dusty and crinkled with age—she didn’t know how old, exactly, but one of the entries about working with the leeches had “1988” marked in an upper corner—had been the real discovery. Written by James Marcus, presumably, apparently the creator of the T-virus, the same virus that turned men into zombies, that had infected the train and probably half of Raccoon forest, if the recent murders were any clue.

  Rebecca gazed blankly at the room’s strange decor, the giant chessboard that dominated the floor, her mind working. He’d obviously been crazy by the end, his ramblings about chess, about the “true meaning” of the virus. Maybe running experiments on people had driven him over the edge.

  Her radio signaled. She’d no sooner pushed RECEIVE before Bill’s breathless voice blared in her ear.

  “Where are you? We need to regroup, now. Hello? Ah, over.”

  “What happened? Over.”

  “What happened is that I ran into another one of those leech-people in the can, and it very nearly whacked the crap out of me. Zombies we can handle, but these things—they eat bullets, Rebecca. We don’t have enough ammo to hold more of them off. Over.”

  “They’ve begun to colonize, like ants or bees.”

  Who was controlling them? Marcus? Or had they developed their own leader, a queen?

  “Okay,” Rebecca said. She picked up the basement and observatory sketches she’d found, stuffed them into her vest as she stood up. After a second, she grabbed the journal, too, slipping it into a hip pocket. “Uh, meet me on the landing, where that picture of Marcus was. I may have found a way out, over.”

  “On my way. Watch your back, over and out.”

  She hurried out of the room and down the hall, moving quickly. She hadn’t gotten far in her exploration, just an empty meeting room and then the office with the chess sets; thankfully, she hadn’t run into anything hostile. Billy was right about the leech-men, there was no way they could handle more of those. In fact, it seemed likely that the only reason the collection of leeches on the train had stopped attacking them was because they were called off. She’d had vague hopes of staying in the nice, safe house until help arrived, but after reading Marcus’s journal, hearing that the training facility was infected—they needed to get out.

  After all she’d already been through tonight—the forced helicopter landing, the train, Billy, the crash, now this—she kept expecting the cavalry to ride in, for someone else to take over, to send her home to a warm dinner and bed so that she could wake up tomorrow and start her normal life again. But it seemed instead that she was being drawn even deeper into the mystery of Marcus and his creations, of Umbrella and its evil experiments.

  * * *

  The young man had moved to a place where the hive could comfortably gather, a large space, warm and moist and far from the possibility of daylight. The many surrounded him now, singing their tuneless song of water and darkness, but he was not soothed. He’d watched with cold fury as the girl—Rebecca, the killer had called her, and his cursed name was Billy—stole Marcus’s journal, slipping it into a pocket before leaving the office. This wasn’t why he’d had the desk opened for her, not at all. The map of the observatory, she was supposed to take only the map.

  The two met now in front of the portrait doorway, both speaking at once, surely relating their findings, their murderous exploits. He could see the thief and the killer on a video screen at one side of his new environment—a lower level of the treatment plant—but he could see them better through the dozen pairs of rudimentary eyes watching them, the children peering out at them from the shadows. The minds of the many were powerful, able to send images to one another, to him; it was how they could work together so effectively. Rebecca and Billy had no understanding of how vulnerable they were, of how easily he could reach out and take their lives from them. They survived still only by his grace.

  A thief and her murdering friend; Billy had killed a collective. He’d burned it. The few survivors were still straggling home to their master, their poor bodies scorched, showing him the death of the whole by their lack of cohesion. How had he dared, this unimportant man, this insect?

  Rebecca held out the maps and they both studied them, too stupid, surely, to know what was expected of them. The observatory was the key to their escape, but they would undoubtedly try the basement first. It was just as well. He was no longer so sure he wanted them to go free.

  They started down the stairs, disappearing from the screen, from the man’s sight, but only for a second. As the couple came back into view through another camera, they stopped, staring down at the litter of arachnid bodies, dead and curled on the floor. There were four of the giant spiders, all killed mere moments before, eliminated so that Rebecca and her friend might avoid their poisonous bite. The spiders were another experiment, one doomed to fail, too slow, too difficult to handle, but lethal enough for the young man to have been concerned. He was sorry, now; watching the thief and murderer die would be his pleasure, in spite of what it did to his plans for Umbrella. The couple moved on, unaware that they were being watched by the creatures that had killed the spiders, who nested in the swollen, segmented bodies even now.

  What to do? Killing them would fulfill a need in him, the need to avenge the lives of the children, the need to assert his control. But exposing Umbrella was the priority, bringing the company to ruin by laying open its stinking heart... which Billy and Rebecca would surely do, if they survived.

  The pair followed the corridor to its end, then through the door of a long-abandoned office. After a brief consultation with their map, they continued on into a dead-end room where live specimens had once been kept. The cages were long gone, the room empty now. The young man wasn’t sure why they had chosen a dead end—until he saw them move to the northeast corner, both of them looking up at the dark rectangle near the ceiling.

  The ventilator shaft. It wouldn’t have been labeled on the map; p
erhaps they believed it to be a way out. In fact, it led to—

  The young man shook his head. Dr. Marcus’s private chamber, the room where he’d once “entertained” certain attractive young test subjects. Why couldn’t they simply leave? They’d find nothing in the private room, nothing—

  —unless.

  The ventilator shaft was connected to another live specimen area, one that wasn’t empty. And the creatures there hadn’t been fed in days. They would very, very hungry by now. All he’d need to do would be to have the many unlatch a gate or two...

  Rather then consider them an integral part of his plan, maybe he should think of Billy and Rebecca as test subjects. They might die—which, in truth, would probably only delay Umbrella’s exposure for a short while; he was impatient, but he had to consider the entertainment value. Or, they might survive. In which case, they’d have an even greater story to tell.

  The young man smiled his blade of a smile as Billy gave Rebecca a boost, lifting her up to the ventilator shaft. She crawled inside, disappearing from view. Wouldn’t they be surprised, if a few of the leftovers from the primate series showed up to play?

  Around him, the children cooed, the walls, the ceiling dripping with their slippery fluids. Surrounded by the many, the fate of Umbrella in his hands—and now two little soldiers for him to test, to enjoy watching as they pitted their abilities against the remnants of Umbrella’s bio-organic weaponry—he was happy. Would they live or die? Either way, he would be satisfied.

  “Open the cages, my darlings,” he murmured, and began to sing.

  EIGHT

  Rebecca pushed herself through the air shaft, ignoring the layers of dust and cobwebs that were collecting on her hair and clothes, ignoring the suffocatingly close walls of thin metal. The map only showed the connecting shaft running between two rooms on the basement’s first floor, but there were spaces on the second, sub-basement floor that seemed to be part of the system, too. It seemed likely that one of the shafts vented outside. Billy hadn’t been overly enthusiastic—likely wasn’t the same as probably, he’d said—but they both agreed that it was worth a shot.

  At least it’s not very long, she thought, edging toward the square of light not far ahead. There was a thin metal grille covering the exit, but it popped off with a few taps, clattering to the floor below.

  She got a quick look at a big stone room, dank and empty in the flicker of a dying light fixture, then pushed herself out, grabbing the edge of the vent and somersaulting to a crouch. She stood up, brushing herself off, taking in the new room.

  Oh, jeez. It was like some medieval dungeon, large, gloomy, a cavern made of stone. The rock walls were fixed with chains, the chains fixed with manacles. There were a number of devices sitting around that she didn’t recognize, but that could only have been made to inflict pain. There were boards with rusty nails in them, knotted ropes in bunches, and next to a scum-thick broken wall fountain was a large standing case that looked like an iron maiden. She had no doubt that the dark, faded stains in the crevices of the rough-hewn wall were blood.

  “Everything okay? Over?”

  She picked up her radio. “I don’t think ‘okay’ is the right word,” she said. “But I’m all right, over.”

  “Is there another air shaft, over?”

  She turned, searching the walls for a vent—and saw one, twenty feet overhead.

  “Yeah, but it’s in the ceiling,” she said, and sighed. Even if they had a ladder to reach the vent, they couldn’t climb straight up. She spotted the room’s one door, in the southwest corner. “Where does the door from here lead, over?”

  A pause. “Looks like it opens into a small room that leads back into the corridor we came through,” he said. “Should I meet you back in the corridor, over?”

  Rebecca started for the door. “That makes the most sense. Maybe we can try—”

  Before she could complete the sentence, a terrible sound filled the room, like nothing she’d ever heard before but also strangely familiar. It was a high, monkeylike shriek—

  —that’s it. The primate house, at the zoo.

  —that was echoing, howling through the cavernous space, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Rebecca looked up just as a pale, long-limbed creature peered out at her from the ceiling vent. It bared its teeth, thick and sharp, clutching the air in front of its muscular chest with limber fingers, screeching horribly.

  Before she could take a step, the creature leaped from the vent, jumping off against one rock wall before landing on the floor in a squat, on a tumble of thin boards in the middle of the room. It stared up at her, its lips drawn back over its yellowed teeth. It looked almost like a baboon with short white fur, except that there were great tears in the fur, glistening patches of dense red muscle showing through. It didn’t look as though it had been attacked, but rather as though its muscles had grown too large for its skin and were splitting through. Its hands were too big, its nails overly long, and they dragged and ticked across the stone floor as it edged toward her from the pile of boards, grinning maliciously.

  Slow... Rebecca eased her weapon off her hip, as frightened as she’d been all night. Normal baboons were capable of ripping a person apart, and this one looked like it had been infected.

  The baboon edged closer—and from overhead she heard another, at least two other voices begin to shriek, the noise getting louder, more of the sick animals approaching. It was close enough now for her to smell, the hot and musky scent of urine and feces and wildness, of overpowering infection.

  “Rebecca! What’s going on?”

  She still held the radio in her left hand. She depressed the button, afraid to speak but more afraid that Bill’s shouting would incite the creature, make it attack.

  “Sshhh,” she said, her voice soft, as much to calm the animal as to shut Billy up. She took a step back, clipping the radio to the collar of her shirt, raising the nine-millimeter. The baboon squatted lower, tensing its legs—

  —and sprang, just as she fired, just as two more lithe and screaming forms hopped and capered into the room from the air shaft, one of them striking her head as it fell past, its ragged nails tearing at her hair. The strike pushed her out of the attacker’s way, but it also knocked her off balance, her shot hitting nothing but wall, all of them landing on the pile of boards—

  —and then the floor collapsed.

  * * *

  There had been no new developments. The strange young man, whoever he was—and Wesker had his suspicions, which he kept to himself—had not appeared again, nor had the image of James Marcus. The cameras didn’t seem to be working correctly, either, making surveillance something of a moot point. Many had simply gone black, leaving them nothing to see, to consider.

  After several long, boring moments of listening to Birkin talk about his new virus, Wesker pushed back from the video console and stood up, stretching. It was funny—a few years ago, he might have been interested in his old friend’s work. Now, with his own departure from Umbrella’s folds looming, he found himself unable even to pretend.

  “Well, it’s been quite a day,” Wesker said, breaking through William’s obsessive monologue when he took a breath. “I’ll be off.”

  Birkin stared at him, his pinched, pallid face looming ghostly by the white light of the screens. “What? Where are you going?”

  “Home. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  “But—you said—what about the cleanup?”

  Wesker shrugged. “Umbrella will send another team, I’m sure.”

  “I thought keeping the spills quiet was the most important thing. Didn’t you say it was vital?”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes!” Birkin was actually angry. “I don’t want anyone else from Umbrella coming in. They might start asking questions about my work. I need more time.”

  Wesker shrugged again. “So, set off the autodestruct yourself, and tell our contact that it’s all taken care of.”

  Birkin nodded, though Wes
ker could see the uneasiness that flashed through his gaze. Wesker dodged a smile. Birkin was afraid of their newest contact to the big boys at HQ, avoiding interaction when he could. Wesker couldn’t blame him. There was something about Trent, his oddly self-possessed nature—

  “What about—him?” Birkin nodded toward the screens. Wesker felt a trace of unease himself, but kept his expression unperturbed.

  “A fanatic with a grudge. He’s great with video tricks, but I imagine he’ll burn as well as anyone else.” Wesker didn’t quite believe that himself, but wasn’t interested in unraveling the mystery. He wasn’t a detective in some cheap conspiracy novel, driven by a need to get to the bottom of things. In his experience, anomalies tended to resolve themselves, one way or another.

  “If word about what really happened to Dr. Marcus were to get out—”

  “It won’t,” Wesker said.

  Birkin refused to be placated. “But what about Spencer’s estate, the facilities there?”

  Wesker started for the door, his boots clanging across the metal mesh. Birkin followed like a way—ward pup.

  “Leave that to me,” he said. “Umbrella wants combat data, I’m going to give it to them. I’ll take the S.T.A.R.S. in, see how real training holds up against the B.O.W.s.” He smiled, thinking of the talent on the Alpha team. Strongman Barry, Chris’s sharpshooting, Jill and her eclectic upbringing, the daughter of an unparalleled thief... It would be a most interesting fight. After seeing little Rebecca Chambers in the facility, it was obvious that something untimely had happened to Enrico’s team; Wesker could use that, take the Alphas in to “find” the remaining men.

  Even if the Bravos manage to get themselves back to civilization, there will be the missing Rebecca to go in search of. The girl was brilliant, but brains didn’t equal combat experience. In fact, she was probably dead already.

  They left the control room, Wesker striding down the hall, Birkin jogging to keep up. They reached the elevator, still open from Wesker’s arrival, and Wesker stepped inside. Birkin stood facing him, and in the brighter light of the corridor, Wesker could see the taint of insanity in the scientist’s face. His eyes were rimmed in darkness, and he’d developed a facial tic at one corner of his mouth. Wesker wondered vaguely if Annette had noticed her husband’s descent into the deeper wells of paranoia, then decided that she probably hadn’t. That woman was blind to everything but the “greatness” of her husband’s work. Unfortunate for their daughter, to have such parents.